Intellectual Properties
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: FINALLY! CHAPTER 4! While Isaac has dinner with a mysterious friend, the rift between Dan and Casey grows, and Murphy tells Dana of CSC's uncertain future. [REVISED]
1. We're Still Open

SPORTS NIGHT - INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES  
  
[Author's disclaimer: The following is an original work of fiction based on the television series Sports Night, created by Aaron Sorkin, and produced by Imagine Entertainment and Touchstone Television.]  
  
Chapter One:  
  
We're Still Open  
  
Isaac Jaffee knew Dana was coming. It was a little after two, he'd just gotten settled in behind the desk again, and he had a full day's work ahead. So naturally Dana was coming. Frankly, he would have been a little disappointed if she didn't. So he kept at the paperwork, signing off on the latest production notes and what-not, all the while waiting for the best showrunner in the business to burst into the room. She surprised him today. She barrelled in, instead. "So has it happened?" Dana asked, half-slamming the door behind herself.  
Four minutes late, he mused, and not looking up. "It?" Isaac replied calmly. "Which it?"  
"You know. It." Dana shook as she spoke, frustrated with his coy response. She just wanted him to say the words.  
He still didn't look up. "Nothing's official, you know. Things in this business can and do change. You should know that by now."  
Dana frowned. "Isaac.."  
That was the tone. The mixture of plead and bleat that always made him meet her eye. It was infuriating and mysterious to him how this woman had figured out the one thing that made him feel the most guilty about evading her.  
He set down his pen and met her gaze. His eyes softened when he saw hers. There was real confusion there, and real fear, just like when they'd gotten the news that Quo Vadimus had gone belly-up. That day was significantly worse, considering that they heard about the collapse from the competition, calling to verify the news.  
Isaac decided to say it softly, so as not to agitate her. "They're going with the Stratosphere bid."  
Dana was quiet for a moment. "Stratosphere," she finally whispered. "So that's good news, right?"  
"I don't know good from bad anymore," Isaac replied. "I just know that it means we'll have our third owner in five years, and this one is notorious for its tinkering."  
Dana didn't respond well to the sound of that. "Tinkering? As in fixing what might not be broken?"  
"Yeah." Isaac sounded a bit weary. He knew he shouldn't have mentioned that to her.  
She chose her next question carefully. Tried to, anyway. "How notorious?"  
"Enough for me to mention," he replied, dropping his eyes back to his paperwork.  
Dana groaned. "We're doomed again, aren't we?"  
"No." Isaac's tone was firm. "As long as I am sitting at this desk, we are never doomed. And you should also know that by now." He looked up at his protégé, and gave her a sweet half-smile. "So this sale is good news. We're still open, and I have no intention of closing. And that better be your attitude, and everyone else's, too. Now go run your three o'clock." With that, he went back to work, and hoped she believed half of his bluster.  
  
Dana watched the older man wave her away; not dismissively, but in a gentle shooing motion, as if to say, go away, kid, you bother me. It didn't bother her in the slightest. Isaac was the best father-figure in the industry, and she was lucky to still have him to annoy.  
She wasn't sure if she trusted much of what he said, though. Isaac was the proverbial rock-and-shield around here, and sometimes that meant he had to protect you from your own worst imaginings. And those often flew thick and fast through her mind, even after his best counsel. Today's mixed news seemed to point to the negative, but it seemed important to Isaac that everyone believe that wasn't the case. She was determined to keep a positive mind-set about the whole thing.  
And she did, all the way to the hall outside Isaac's office, where Natalie was leaning against a wall, clipboard against her chest. Natalie read Dana's eyes. "We're doomed again, aren't we?" she asked.  
Dana sighed, then plastered a glass smile across her face. "Nope. We're safe, secure, and sold. And that's the attitude Isaac wants around here." At that, she began walking down the hall.  
Natalie stayed on her hip. "Who owns us today?"  
"The ink isn't dry, but we'll be getting our checks signed by Stratosphere."  
"Stratosphere?" Natalie's voice went up an octave. "Don't you mean our pink slips?"  
Dana shook her head. "Wrong attitude, Natalie."  
"Sorry," the younger woman said. "But am I wrong?"  
Dana stopped and faced her friend. "Isaac seemed a little apprehensive himself about the news."  
Natalie's jaw dropped. "We're done for."  
Dana frowned. ".but he's not giving up the ship. And neither do we."  
Natalie chewed on that for a moment, then said, "Okay. Isaac was apprehensive, how?"  
Dana took a breath, and picked a word from the conversation that wouldn't send the other woman into convulsions. It surprised her that she could find one. "He said they like to tinker."  
"'Tinker'?" Natalie said the word like she'd never heard it before.  
"His word."  
"He said 'tinker'."  
"Yeah."  
Natalie though about that for another moment. "'Tinker' might not be all bad. It might be good for us." A smile appeared, then disappeared. "Who am I kidding? We're doomed again." At that, she took off down the hall, leaving Dana behind.  
  
Jeremy tried to be subtle. He finished reading from his computer screen, casually shut down the browser, and pretended to find a file on his desk. When he 'found' what he wanted, he headed for Dan and Casey's glassed-in office, carrying it in front of himself, and walking with purpose and direction. The walking was not pretend.  
Casey finished typing as Jeremy entered. He was about to ask why the younger man was coming in, but then he saw the look behind the eyes, and knew. CSC had an offer.  
"It's Stratosphere. Quo Vadimus, or whatever's left of it, signed us over as of noon today. Stratosphere's owners offered forty-two, and that won the bidding war," he said to no one in particular.  
Dan sauntered in behind him, opening a bottle of water. "Forty-two?"  
"Per share," Jeremy replied.  
"Is that good?" Dan asked, taking a swig.  
"Good enough for the creditors of QV's estate, I guess," Jeremy said.  
Dan slipped past Jeremy and sat on the edge of his desk. "So we're under new management. Again. Just when I was starting to not hate the old management." He grabbed the foam football off his desk and tossed it at Casey.  
"Stratosphere? They're the ones we wanted, right?" Casey asked, snatching the ball out of the air.  
"Sort of. They'll keep us alive for a while, that's a given."  
"What do you mean, 'a while'?" Dan asked.  
"They'll infuse the company with cash, they'll keep the team together, they won't move us out of New York. But they won't guarantee that any of it will last." Jeremy's voice darkened toward the end.  
Casey looked at Jeremy, and lobbed the football back to Dan. "Excuse me?"  
Jeremy lowered his voice, and leaned closer to them. "I was just chatting on-line with a friend of mine who worked for a regional sports channel Stratosphere bought about four years ago. She was telling me about the change in attitude the ownership had after the ratings didn't grow. Simply said, they gutted the staff, including on-air talent and their best producers, replaced only the most essential employees, then cut budgets to the bone. And when that didn't work, they shut the channel down and sold it off, piece by piece."  
"So they're scavengers?" Dan asked, passing the ball over to Casey again.  
"Sounds like it," Casey said, sending the ball to Jeremy.  
Jeremy seemed surprised to be playing receiver, and not unhappy about it. But his pleasure at being included in the game dissolved rather quickly. "Any way you look at it, this is the last hurrah for us. If CSC doesn't fly for Stratosphere, it won't fly for anyone," Jeremy said.  
Dan spread his hands, indicating that he was wide open. Jeremy sent the ball in his direction. As he plucked the ball from over his shoulder, he said, "I'll just start hating them now."  
  
By five after three, the bullpen was abuzz with the news. Dana had to fight her way through a maze of questioning staffers and production assistants and technicians to reach the conference room, where most of her Sports Night crew were sitting, quiet, but not docile. Natalie was next to Casey and Dan, ostensibly showing them research notes for a story they'd been writing, but as soon as the showrunner was through the door, they lost all interest. She dropped her show folder on the table, and sat down. "How's the show look tonight?" was all she had to say before the room exploded in voices.  
"Stratosphere fire us yet?" Dave asked.  
"I heard that the staff's being cut by twenty percent," Kim said. "Is that true, Dana?"  
"Twenty? Try thirty," Tony muttered.  
"Are they honoring QV contracts?"  
"Are they honoring QV health insurance?"  
"What happens to the West Coast Update?"  
"Who's in charge?"  
"What are we going to do?"  
As the voices crescendoed, Dana stuck a thumb and forefinger in her mouth and whistled for quiet. It was an old trick that usually never accomplished anything, just added more noise to talk over.  
Except this time.  
The room fell to a hushed silence. Natalie looked over at her boss and gave her an approving nod, and Dana took the floor. "I know we're back at square one, and for the second time in less than two years. I know that everyone's on edge. I know that this is something we thought we'd never have to do again." Dana looked from face to face around the table. "I don't have any real answers for you, or for myself. I only know that Isaac says we're still open, and he's absolutely right. We have a show to do tonight. And probably tomorrow, and the night after that. We need to stay focused on our jobs right now, and put the things we don't control aside for the moment. In this room, and in the studio, Sports Night is all that matters." Dana took a breath and exhaled. "So, once more, how's the show look tonight?"  
  
Casey watched Dana work the room like she always did - the show mattered to her, sometimes even more than it seemed to matter to anyone else. It was amazing to him how cool she could remain when skirmishes broke out. All business, a true pro.  
And easy on the eyes, too, a little voice whispered mischieviously in his ear. Always liked that white blouse. And that skirt just shows off those legs -  
Damn. He blinked hard to clear that burst of reverie from his mind.  
Dan was looking at him. "You okay?" he asked, under his breath.  
Casey nodded. Of course he was.  
"'Cause you were staring at Dana again." Dan's voice was pure junior-high mockery.  
Casey tried his best to sound perturbed. "No, I wasn't."  
"You sure?"  
"Danny, I'm trying to pay attention here."  
"Yeah, to Dana."  
"Danny.."  
"Casey.."  
"Hey, guys," Dana said. "If you don't mind, we're trying to have a meeting here, unless you've got something to share with the class."  
"It's nothing," Dan said. "Casey's just hungry again."  
Casey shook his head. "I'm fine. What did Dan make me miss?"  
Dana didn't miss a beat. "Okay, so can we switch Cleveland to the forties, and move Dallas up to the twenties?"  
"That'll work," Casey said, which earned him more confused looks from the room.  
"Thanks for your approval, Mr. Co-Anchor," Dana said.  
Dan stifled a chuckle.  
Casey stood up. "I think I'll get a sandwich. Anyone else want anything?"  
The voices rose as one. "No."  
Casey forced a smile. As he started for the door, he flicked a finger against the back of Dan's neck, and bolted from the room.  
"What was that all about, Danny?" Dana asked, after he'd gone.  
Dan smiled. "I don't have the faintest idea." He tsk-tsked. "Casey's such a bad influence on me."  
  
Isaac heard the knuckles rapping on his door. It was the classic knock-knock-knock, polite and professional, so he knew he was about to have a visitor who didn't work in this office. "Come in," he said.  
The visitor walked in, and closed the door behind himself. "Isaac Jaffee?"  
"That's me," Isaac replied. He looked up from his paperwork again to see who owned the voice.  
It belonged to a younger man in a tailored suit. Isaac didn't even have to hear him say it to know this was another corporate drone. "Brian O'Rourke, from Stratosphere. We spoke this morning," the drone said in that same smooth manner they all had.  
"Of course," Isaac lied. In the back of his mind, though, he knew he'd heard that name before. Where he'd heard it, he couldn't remember. He rose from his desk chair, and indicated the chairs positioned across from him. "Have a seat, please."  
"Thank you, Mr. Jaffee." O'Rourke settled on the chair off to Isaac's left. "Or may I call you Isaac?"  
"Either is fine," Isaac said, his tone polite.  
"Isaac, then." O'Rourke offered a smile.  
Isaac returned the affectation. Somehow, the older man knew the drone would begin their working relationship like that. They were all pretty much the same. It had to be in their nature. Either that, or it was a college seminar that counted toward their MBAs.  
"First off, I have to tell you how excited all of us at Stratosphere are about this acquisition. Your channel has a lot of fans over at Corporate. When we had a chance to bring it into the fold, no one had to think twice about making an offer. We firmly believe that Quo Vadimus blew every chance they had with this channel, and we don't intend to make the same mistakes."  
"That's good to hear."  
"Anyway, the reason I'm here. We terminated Bob Epperson as of today."  
Isaac felt the hairs on the back of his neck shoot up. "Our executive producer?"  
O'Rourke nodded. "Creative differences. Stratosphere wants to build CSC into the powerhouse of sports television. Bob didn't feel the same."  
"I see." Gee, Isaac thought, so Bob was just pretending to sweat blood over the tiniest programming details. "Who's going to fill the slot?"  
The drone smiled his best fake smile, like he'd heard what enthusiasm was supposed to look like, but hadn't practiced it. "Chris Murphy," he said.  
Isaac chuckled humorlessly. "Him? You're joking."  
The drone had an answer at the ready. "Not at all. Chris joined Stratosphere eighteen months ago as a programming consultant, and when the CSC deal was in its early stages, he stated quite clearly that he wanted the executive producer post, should it become available."  
"And then it did." Isaac was out of his chair again, this time over to a window.  
"We couldn't help it that Bob wouldn't work with us to determine Stratosphere's long-term plan for CSC."  
Isaac couldn't believe his ears. "You forced Bob out, which will almost certainly throw my people for a loop, and now you want to dump gasoline onto the fire by replacing him with an unstable element like Chris Murphy?" The older man frowned, and his voice turned icy. "No."  
The smile was gone from the younger man's face as well. O'Rourke's brow furrowed. "Excuse me, Isaac? No?"  
"You heard me right. And it's Mr. Jaffee, if you please."  
"Fine. Mr. Jaffee." O'Rourke's plastic friendliness vanished, replaced by a cruel calm. "Stratosphere is looking to keep the CSC team intact, so we can move forward with our grand plan."  
Isaac set his jaw. "And keeping the team intact means firing Bob Epperson, an award-winning, twenty-year veteran of cable sports."  
O'Rourke shrugged. "We at Stratosphere have a vision for this channel. Bob didn't share that. Chris Murphy does. We hope the remaining employees of CSC will stand with Chris." He stood up, and re- buttoned his coat. "It would be a shame to lose any of them. Especially you, Mr. Jaffee." The last words were pitch-black and each syllable stung.  
  
Isaac turned and his dark eyes met O'Rourke's light ones. It was then he remembered hearing the man's name. For the first time in their conversation, Isaac believed he wasn't talking to just another suit who tossed around company lines like a middle-manager pretending to be a big shot. O'Rourke was the big shot: the newly-minted president of CSC. Isaac finally broke eye contact, turning back to the window.  
The younger man looked at his watch. "I'm late for an appointment. Chris will be coming by to meet with you and your people at five. Welcome him." At that, he turned and walked out. Isaac felt a shiver in his bones, but he stifled it until O'Rourke was long- gone. He sat in his chair once again, but had no urge to get back to his paperwork. The message was clear: CSC's new owners were only interested in the sound of their people falling into lockstep. That idea chilled him much more.  
  
Dana's phone rang. That wasn't unusual, especially after four on a weekday.  
It also wasn't unusual that Isaac was calling her to his office; he usually wanted to know how the three o'clock meeting went.  
But today, his voice was weak, just like it was right after his stroke, and hearing that weakness scared Dana to the deepest part of her soul.  
"Are you all right?" she asked him, barely aware of what he was saying. "Do you need a doctor?"  
"No," he replied. "Just you, Dan, and Casey, in my office, right now."  
"What's wrong?" she asked.  
"I'll tell you when you get here," he replied.  
  
Dana rapped on Dan and Casey's door, which drew Casey's attention away from his computer. Casey saw her pale expression and motioned her in. "What is it? Are you sick?"  
Dana looked at him blankly. "What? No. Isaac wants us in his office right now. Where's Dan?"  
Casey cocked his head at her. "Dan's cutting footage in Edit Bay 2. What's going on?"  
"I don't know, Casey. Just go get him, and I'll meet you both at Isaac's." With that, Dana walked out, and Casey set off for the editing room.  
  
When the men arrived at the office, they found Dana and Isaac huddled behind his desk, speaking in hushed tones. Dan cleared his throat. "Excuse me, you two, but nobody like whisperers," he said.  
Isaac looked up, but not Dana. She looked a bit stunned. "Close the door, Danny," Isaac said. Dan did as he was asked, then sat next to Casey on the couch. "What's the hubbub?" Dan asked.  
"I've already told Dana what I'm going to tell you. Bob Epperson is out as executive producer of CSC," Isaac said.  
Casey frowned. "No way. He was fired?"  
"He might say fired, they definitely say resigned - but it's all the same. Bob's out as of today."  
"Who did they pick to replace him?" Dan asked.  
It took some effort for Isaac to say the name. "Chris Murphy."  
The color drained from Dan's face. "Murphy?" he fairly shouted. "You tore me away from cutting my marathon runner piece to tell me that we're getting stuck with Murphy?"  
"Shouting at Isaac isn't going to change anything, Dan," Dana said.  
"Just tell me that you're fighting them on this, Isaac. Tell me that we're going to dig in against this horrible decision, and that we're going to work to keep that train wreck from plowing into us," Dan said.  
Isaac shook his head. "I met with the new network president today. He's made it abundantly clear that Stratosphere has a plan for us, and that Chris Murphy is the man for the job."  
"This is such - Isaac, he'll ruin us. We all know that," Dan said.  
Casey spoke up, but his voice was soft. "No, we don't."  
The other three were speechless. Especially Dan.  
Isaac found his voice first. "Casey? You can't be serious."  
"I am. I think Chris is a good choice."  
"Based on what, Casey?" Isaac asked.  
"Based on the fact he's a hell of a producer, a great judge of talent, and he fights for his people when he believes they're right."  
"And he bullies them the rest of the time," Dana said.  
"When he isn't hitting on every body in a skirt, or leaving his staff high-and-dry while he disappears on a bender," Dan said. "Don't forget, I worked with that jerk at Pacific Sports for seven months, and the day he left was the happiest day of my life." Dan frowned at his friend.  
"I also remember that he went to the mat for you when Pacific Sports said you didn't have the on-camera presence, or the off- camera skills, to be an anchor," Casey countered.  
"One good turn doesn't erase all the nonsense I had to put up with," Dan muttered.  
"That was also more than ten years ago," Casey said. "Didn't he get married and have a kid?"  
"Guys like Chris Murphy don't settle down," Dan replied. "They just find other excuses to get loaded and screw other people over." He looked away from Casey again.  
"Regardless, he hasn't produced or executive-produced anything in five years. That's my official line of complaint," Dana said. "Is Stratosphere serious about bringing him in?"  
"They've already hired him," Isaac said. "I tried to voice concerns with O'Rourke - that's the new head of our channel - and he basically said that if anyone had a problem with Murphy being hired, then those people wouldn't have to work at CSC anymore."  
There was another long silence.  
It was Dan who finally broke it. "So we just have to take it?" Dan asked. "Except for his best friend Casey, that is."  
Casey snorted.  
Isaac took a note of that, but then turned his attention back to Dan. "This is not a time for us to be fighting. Right now, being supportive of each other is the name of the game. And we need to keep our personal prejudices about the new boss to ourselves." Isaac looked at the other three. "Unless, of course, you plan on explaining to everyone why they shouldn't want to keep their jobs."  
Dan's eyes softened, and found the floor. "Right."  
"When does he take over?" Casey asked.  
"As of five o'clock today. He's going to come in, introduce himself. I don't know what his plans are beyond that." Isaac smiled sadly. "So everyone buck up. Get back to work, put on your best smiles, and burn these words into your minds: we're still open. No matter who the boss is." At that, he returned to his work. "Get going," he said.  
Dana was the first to go, with Casey right behind her. Dana was oddly quiet as she left. Casey shook his head at his partner as he walked out. Dan noticed it, and felt his stomach fall a bit. He looked at Isaac again. "Sorry, Isaac."  
"Don't worry about it. Now go save your piece," the older man replied.  
"We're still open," Dan said.  
"There you go," Isaac said.  
Dan pulled up the corners of his mouth, forming something like a smile, and walked out.  
When he was sure he was alone again, Isaac's demeanor deteriorated. "We're still open," he said again, trying to sound pleased, but not sure that he'd succeeded. 


	2. Magic Time and The New Guy

SPORTS NIGHT - INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES  
  
[Author's disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction based on the television series 'Sports Night' created by Aaron Sorkin and produced by Touchstone Television and Imagine Entertainment.]  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Magic Time and The New Guy  
  
Jack Garrett had been a security guard in this Manhattan high-rise for eight years, and walked the beat around here as a uniform cop for a dozen years before that, so he was used to the pattern. The lobby was emptying in a gradual manner, as it usually did this time of day. Most of the business offices were closed or closing now, and they'd all be empty in the next half-hour or so. He waved at a few of the hardier swimmers from the various secretarial pools, overheard the mixture of braggarts and social climbers half his age talking about their new SUVs - pretending they knew how the mechanisms under the hood worked was common conversation material - and mostly counted the minutes until his evening replacement would come on duty. By five, they'd all be gone.  
Except for the TV people. They'd be busy all night, which wasn't new. They had shows to do. He was glad they were going to be around for a while longer. It would have been wrong for them to lose their jobs because the last owners were greedy and thoughtless. Most of the people up there seemed decent, and he enjoyed the conversations he'd had with some of them. They were smart, quick people, and usually the mood was light around them.  
More recently though, there'd been a change in the tone. Some of them weren't happy about the new ownership. He guessed the biggest problem most of them had was that there was going to be a new guy in charge. Garrett didn't like the way some of the staff had said those words: 'the new guy'. It reminded him of when his eldest son would come home from school and complain about 'the new kid in class' who was inevitably 'a jerk' or worse. The attitude among the TV people was so similar, he half-expected to hear that this 'new guy' had cooties. Garrett grimaced. Never mind that a week later, 'the new kid' was hanging around the living room with his son, watching television and drinking soda pop, now referred to as the 'new best friend'. He wondered how long it would take the people upstairs to change their collective tune. Maybe as long as it was going to take the new boss to notice the intern trying to disguise herself by a pillar.  
  
As a CSC intern, Kelly Phang was often deeply entrenched in schemes regarding new personnel. She had been given the basic surveillance training by the intern she'd replaced a few months before - how to hide in plain sight, usually behind a magazine or a plant or something; how to watch for new faces, especially to notice the look in the eyes, which was a good way to determine mind-set and mood; how to decide who belonged and who didn't. These were valuable skills, the kinds of things you definitely didn't learn in a broadcast journalism class.  
And today, she was getting a chance to use them for a good cause. Natalie, one of the people from Sports Night, had given her a walkie-talkie and a prime assignment - identify and report the arrival of the new boss. So she was there, posed casually by a painted concrete pillar, pretending to read a magazine, and watching the revolving front door. Where are you, Mr. Executive Producer, she wondered. She glanced at her watch. Natalie had said he was going to arrive around five o'clock. She noted it was fifteen minutes to the top of the hour. Kelly hoped the new guy didn't have a habit of running late.  
  
At ten to five, Garrett was noticing that a camera in the southwest stairwell seemed stuck. As he prepared to check it out, he saw the man in the dark gray suit walking into the lobby and approaching the elevator. Garrett looked over at the visitor, giving him a good once- over. Deciding that the visitor wasn't an apparent threat to him or anyone else in the building, the guard gave the visitor a nod. The man in the suit blankly returned the gesture, then turned his attention to the silver sliding doors once more. The elevator dinged to signify its arrival, then the doors opened, allowing the man to step inside. Once he was safely aboard, Garrett frowned a bit. "Must be the new guy," he said to no one in particular.  
  
Kelly had noticed the man's entrance. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the new guy. His expression was guarded, his stride determined. She'd noticed the security man giving him a sideways glance, and his non-action was the clincher. This was Chris Murphy, new CSC Executive Producer, she was sure of that.  
She was also sure that he was a hottie.  
In her mind, she saw his entrance again, and this time it seemed like he was floating an inch above the floor, gliding across the smooth, gleaming marble and tile, finding the elevator without even trying. He turned his eyes to hers as he pressed the call button and let a smile spread across his lips, and she felt her heart thrumming in her chest, and then he was approaching her, the smile growing closer and closer, his strong hands reaching for hers...  
A crackle over the walkie-talkie Natalie had handed to Kelly snapped her back to reality. The elevator had already taken him away. She blinked. "Yeah, I'm here," she said, still a bit absent.  
Natalie's words were quick. Kelly could hear her nervous energy. "Is he in the building?" she asked.  
"Yeah. He's on his way up."  
"You sure?"  
Kelly flashed back to his face. "Uh-huh."  
"How'd he look?" Natalie asked.  
Yummy, she almost blurted. But she thanked her lucky stars that she actually replied, "Like he's in charge."  
  
The elevator doors closed behind him. A glance at the time told him he was early, maybe too early. He was convinced he'd never been this early for a meeting. Then he noticed that his face felt hot. He tried to check it in the sliver of reflective metal on the elevator button panel, but it simply stretched his face to a ridiculous proportion. So no help there. Maybe his tie was too tight. Hell, maybe his jacket was too tight. He tugged on his collar, noticing once more that his pulse was off the charts. Good God, man, get a hold of yourself, he thought. You're not a friggin' intern, like the college girl who was watching you in the lobby. She'd been staring at him. Dead giveaway. He figured she must've drawn the short straw.  
He checked his watch for the hundredth time since he'd walked through the front door, and looked up at the lighted numbers ticking off his rise. "Breathe, dammit," he felt himself hiss in the void. He closed his eyes, listening to the emptiness and the soft hum of the fluorescence, and waited for her whisper. It didn't come right away, and he worried for an instant that he'd forgotten it.  
But he was wrong. "You'll be okay," she said, in that sweet and quiet way. "You might not believe it now, but you will."  
She always made him smile. This time was no exception. His heart slowed down, his suit now fit like a dream, and he was ready. He took another breath, dropped the smile, and waited for the elevator to slow and stop.  
Five minutes before five, he stepped off the elevator and swung the CSC office doors wide open. A receptionist looked at him with a general curiosity, and he responded before she could ask the question that was coming. "My name is Chris Murphy. I have some people to meet," he said.  
  
Natalie bolted up from her desk, and shot past Jeremy's workstation. "He's here," she said to him as she whipped past.  
Jeremy was about to verify her assertion, but was struck dumb by the fact that she was already gone and it would have been foolish to say anything. Elliot appeared next to him, Kim in tow. "Is he - ?" he asked.  
Jeremy began to nod, and that was enough to make Elliot and Kim disappear, too. Jeremy shook his head. "It begins," he said to himself. "Again," he added wryly.  
Indeed, it didn't take long for the bullpen to whip itself into a frenzy once more. The activity now, Jeremy noted, didn't seem to have as much to do with the earlier craziness of 'who owns us' as it did with the near-insanity of getting a first look at 'the new guy'. Personally, he wanted to wait. No need to rush headlong into a firing squad.  
  
Casey watched the madness through his window, half- heartedly chewing on a tuna sandwich. If he didn't know better, he'd think this was a busy news day. Watching the writers and producers and techs rushing from desk to desk, huddling in corners and by doors, and disappearing and reappearing, all of it was a bit disheartening. It was close to a riot, or as close as he wanted them to get. It was just a new boss, he thought, and almost instantly felt foolish for having that cross his mind. He set the sandwich back on its paper plate and pushed it away, a bit unhappy with himself. Of course they're nervous, they have every right to be, he thought. We have every right to be, he amended.  
"Casey?" Dana said, startling him.  
Cripes. How'd she get in here without me seeing her?  
Or noticing that sweet, subtle perfume she'd begun wearing, his little friend piped up.  
"Shut up," he said, under his breath.  
"What?" Dana asked. "Am I interrupting Magic Time?"  
Double damn. "No, Magic Time hasn't started yet. I'm just - uh - trying to find the right word here," he lied, gesturing to his monitor. "What's going on? Murphy in the building yet?" he asked, trying to shift attention from his missteps.  
"Actually, yes, he is. That's what Natalie just told me."  
"Oh. So that's why the gang is all a-twitter," he said, nodding toward the bullpen.  
The word caught her off-guard. "A-twitter?" She smiled broadly, genuinely. "I didn't realize that term was still in vogue."  
Casey gave her his best 'aw, shucks' grin. "It's making a comeback."  
"I must've missed the memo," she said. "How's the tuna?" She gestured toward the plate.  
"Okay, I guess. It sounded better to me when I ordered it than it ended up being." He decided that was actually about right.  
"Yeah, that happens to me, too," she said, with that wry smile that always destroyed him.  
Please leave, he wanted to think, but that little bugger in his head dropped a 'don't' into the phrase.  
We're close friends again. I'm totally over wanting anything romantic from her. I've got someone else.  
Yeah, the goofball whispered in his ear. You certainly are.  
  
And then they were silent again for what felt like an eternity. He was trying to avoid her, she could tell. Maybe he was nervous about Chris Murphy, like everybody else. Or maybe it was that thing with Dan; that had been rather unpleasant.  
Or maybe he wanted to say something else to her.  
Like:  
'Hey, Dana, you wanna grab dinner later?'  
Or maybe:  
'Dana, I've been wondering if you'd like to have a drink with me after work.'  
Or even:  
'You were right, I was wrong, please take me back.'  
But instead, he looked down at his monitor and started typing again. Dana was about to take it as a sign and leave, but just then Casey said, "I'm having dinner with Sheri again tonight."  
Dana froze and replayed the sentence in her head.  
Sheri.  
Again.  
Tonight.  
She digested each word one by one, to avoid nausea. The thought of Sheri and Casey together had that effect on her. Dana remembered them walking through the bullpen on the way to their second date, Sheri hanging all over him, kissing him on the neck, giving him those gooey looks. And him returning them. Eww. She hadn't said anything about it, though. She had no right to comment. They were friends again, finally, and if Sheri made him happy, well, then . . . Good God, she couldn't even finish the thought.  
A glimmer of hope hit her. He'd said it rather flatly, like he was talking about visiting the dentist.  
But Sheri was a dentist. His dentist. His tall, raven- haired, twenty-five year old dentist. So that didn't prove anything. "Great," she said, trying not to rush the response. "How's it going with her, by the way?" she added, trying to gauge him.  
He looked up, but didn't give her any real hints. "Pretty well, considering our schedules haven't been conducive to us seeing each other," he said.  
"Yeah, work can be like that," she replied, trying to find something that would sound supportive, and not sure if she had.  
"Tell me about it," he said with a chuckle.  
Yep, bland, flavorless conversation. Just about our speed, she thought. Time to end this particular uncomfortable encounter. "Well, I'm going to head over to my office, get caught up on my paperwork. See you at pre-show."  
Casey nodded in her direction, then returned to work, and Dana took that as her cue to spin on her heel and walk out. For a moment, she thought about going back, but decided against it. If Chris Murphy was going to drop by her office, she didn't want to be caught unprepared. Besides, he might want to discuss something that would make her have to deal with the memories of Sheri again, and that she could not take.  
  
As Casey glimpsed her exit out the corner of his eye, he thought he saw her pause.  
Catch up to her, his buddy cried. Spin her around and knock her off her feet!  
I can't, he replied. I'm having dinner with Sheri again tonight.  
The voice was wounded. 'Can't'? Try 'won't'. That's more accurate.  
And then the voice was quiet again.  
  
Jeremy was headed for the men's room when he felt the hand on his arm, and before he could see who had grabbed him, he felt himself flying into the empty break room. Part of the trip had been aided by his nervous reaction, most of it was courtesy of somebody else's right arm. Jeremy took a moment after landing to ensure that he would still need to use the men's room after this, which he would, thanks.  
He looked around the room. Tony, Elliot, Kim, and Natalie were looking back at him. "Finally decided to get a glimpse of the new guy?" Natalie asked.  
Jeremy shook his head. "No, just had a bit too much coffee." He was about to step out again, but Natalie blocked him.  
"He's coming now. He'll be passing by any second," she said.  
"So I can't go to the bathroom until then?"  
"You might just have to get used to holding it," Tony said. "I heard he's a tough guy to work for."  
Jeremy shook his head. "And Bob Epperson wasn't? Or Isaac? Or - hell, I could come up with a dozen names, and you knew them first hand," he replied. "And exactly how does grabbing a passing glance at him help anyone figure out if he'll be easy or tough on us?"  
"I just want to see who we're dealing with," Tony said. "His attitude."  
"So why hide in the break room? Why not just look busy in the hallway, wait for him to pass - "  
The others gave him sideways glances. Finally, Kim said what they were thinking. "Because we're being devious," she said, like she was explaining it to a child.  
"Ridiculous is more like it. Excuse me," Jeremy said, ducking around Natalie, and back into the hall.  
And straight into the stranger in the gray suit.  
  
The collision was painless, and not that annoying, simply an interruption in Chris's stride. He looked over at the young man he'd bumped into. "You okay?" he said to the other man, who seemed a bit dazed.  
The younger man reset his eyeglasses. "Yeah, thanks. Just on my way to the men's room."  
Chris turned his attention to the small crowd behind the man, who were all trying to evade his gaze. Man, somebody needs to teach these people how to spy, he mused. "Isaac Jaffee's office is this way, right?" he asked, gesturing ahead of himself.  
The younger man cleared his throat. "Yes. Straight down there," he said, attempting to point the right direction and finally just agreeing with Chris's posture.  
Chris offered a smile. "Thanks." He held out his hand. "I'm Chris Murphy."  
It sat out in the air for a moment before the younger man made a last-second grab for it. "Sorry, sorry. I'm Jeremy. I work here."  
  
What the hell? Of course you work here, stupid, Jeremy thought. He gripped the bigger hand with his own. It wasn't soft or manicured like most of the execs; this guy worked for a living, he thought. Then Jeremy had a revelation: why the hell am I noticing the new guy's hands? He quickly dropped the handshake.  
"I gotta get going," Jeremy said.  
"Right. The men's room," Murphy replied with a smile.  
Oh, God, why did I bring that up? "Yeah, yeah," he tried to say.  
"See you - all of you - around," Murphy said as he walked away.  
"Sure thing," Jeremy said after him. He turned to see his friends in the break room, all trying to avoid his eyes too, but this time to keep from laughing. "Thanks a lot," Jeremy said to them, reserving a special glare for Natalie, then walked down the hall and pushed open the men's room door.  
  
Chris enjoyed the moment as he stretched his legs again. It was unexpected, sure, but funny, nonetheless. As he noted the names and numbers on the doors, and how they were leading him to Isaac's office, the smile slipped away. It was reminding him of all the trips he'd made as a field producer for one network news division or another. Sometimes he ended in up in places that people didn't plan to visit. And the eyes on him, so constant, so observant. He'd see the thin smirks, the whispers of contempt or malice, and he'd wonder why he was the one chosen for the task.  
He always remembered. He hadn't been chosen, he volunteered. He loved the rush, loved the challenge, always wanted more, more, more.  
And the coke and booze never hurt.  
The smile had dissolved completely by the time he noticed the door with Isaac's name on it. Back to the business at hand.  
  
After ensuring that the new guy was gone, and giving themselves time to clear the guffaws from their throats, they settled into a quiet moment of thought. "He seems okay," Elliot said finally. "Even kinda nice, you know?"  
"Yeah," Kim agreed. "He was cool with Jeremy."  
"I suppose," Tony muttered. "I still don't trust him, but I guess he deserves a chance to earn it."  
Natalie nodded her agreement, and after a beat, added, "And he's cute, too."  
Kim didn't need to think about that. "Oh, yeah," she growled.  
"Good Lord," the men groaned, stepping out into the hall.  
The women laughed out loud. "I can't believe I said that," Natalie said.  
"I thought it was just me," Kim said. "You think so too?"  
Natalie's laughing slowed. "Seriously? You find him attractive?"  
"Unbelievably so. You don't?" Kim furrowed her brow, pretending to check her friend's eyes. "Sorry, but have you suddenly gone blind?"  
Natalie smiled apologetically. "No. I just don't see it."  
Kim frowned a bit. "Maybe it is just me." She shrugged. "Oh, well. See you at pre-show." Then she was gone.  
Natalie folded her arms in front of herself. She couldn't believe she lied to Kim about something as silly as finding the new guy attractive. Then she noticed Jeremy walking back down the hall, and remembered why.  
  
Isaac dreaded the knock. It was coming, he knew it, and when it happened two ticks before five, he felt his heart skip a beat, which was a sensation a former cardiac patient dreaded. But his heart picked up the pace again, so he rose to his feet, buttoning his coat, and said, "Come in," in the most genial tone he could find. The door opened, and they were face-to-face, not in his worst imaginings, but for real. And it surprised Isaac. Murphy looked substantially different than he'd remembered; somehow he was taller and broader-shouldered than he had been those many years before. But his voice was virtually the same.  
"Isaac," Chris said. "It's good to see you again."  
Isaac was surprised by the compliment, and even a little touched. "Thank you, Chris. You've changed," Isaac replied.  
"A little, I suppose," Chris replied. He reached behind himself and closed the door. Then Chris crossed the space between them and extended his hand. Isaac accepted the greeting, then motioned for his visitor to sit.  
  
Chris took the seat across from Isaac. He'd been in this position before. Of course, there were others in the room - editors, producers, lawyers. Lots of those. He sized up Isaac. The man had aged, changed jobs, gone through a stroke and rehabilitation, and he was still able to pin you to your chair with one glance. In other words, he hadn't changed at all. And Chris was glad to see that.  
"Would you like some coffee? A soda?" Isaac asked.  
"No, I'm fine, thanks," Chris replied. Then, with a tentative voice, he asked, "So do you want to dredge?"  
Isaac's head snapped up at that.  
"'Cause I'm not really in the mood to do that today," Chris added, offering a small, wry expression; not really a smile, but how else could it be described?  
  
The question had taken Isaac by surprise. It had occurred to him to bring up their past dealings, but he had dismissed the idea as bad form. And then this young punk - no, wrong direction to go in this early, Isaac thought - Murphy decides to bring it up himself. With a half-smile, like it was some kind of private joke between them? Son of a bitch.  
Isaac couldn't hold it in. "Listen to me, Chris, and carefully. I don't want you here. I said as much to O'Rourke. I still believe you're a disaster waiting to happen, no matter what you've deluded Stratosphere or any of their executives into thinking. Maybe you don't want to be, maybe you don't believe it yourself, but I was there the last time. You - yes, little old you - nearly destroyed the careers of three fine reporters, not to mention very nearly costing them their lives. You and I may have a brief track record, but it is one that shows me that you have as much concern or respect for the craft of journalism as you do for your liver, lungs, or brain. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let it happen to any of my people here."  
He was prepared to let his tightening emotions take the lead, but then he saw the young man's downcast eyes, and felt a blush of embarrassment.  
When Chris looked up, Isaac knew he wasn't going to feel it for long.  
  
Isaac had swung hard, really given it his best. Every word drew blood. And that buried Chris's gentility. He felt his jaw constrict. "I thought long and hard about bringing our history up. I decided that if it was off the table, we could settle into some kind of pleasant professional relationship. I didn't expect anything more than that. I'm keenly aware that we have no shot at anything friendlier. But I had no idea that you couldn't let the past lie, and actually would prefer being at odds all day, every day."  
"Three reporters, Chris," Isaac started.  
"Alive and well and prospering. And they all forgave me," Chris countered. "I've worked with all of them more than a dozen times since then. Hell, your bosses forgave me, my bosses forgave me, even the God damn network and newspaper counsels forgave me. But not you. Not the great and all-powerful Isaac Jaffee, who never met a grudge he couldn't nurse." Chris gritted his teeth. No turning back now. "And as far as you thinking I'm going to crash this place, have you looked at the trades lately? According to the rest of the industry, you've already done it. Stratosphere is this close to being a laughingstock. Nobody wants to keep CSC together, for Christ's sake: our own bean counters say the sum doesn't equal the value of its parts. The board of directors has a pool going on how long it's going to take you to collapse. And that's where your salvation came in, and he looks a damn sight like me," Chris said, leaning forward and giving Isaac a blazing stare. "I practically - practically, how about literally - begged O'Rourke not to sell this place for scrap. That's right, little old me. Little old 'disaster waiting to happen' saved your sorry asses. And I'm going to continue to do so, whether the hell you like it or not." At that, Chris found his feet, then the door, and before Isaac had a chance to respond, he was gone, the door slamming behind him.  
  
Isaac pushed himself deeper into his chair, and waited, his hands folded on his chest, like he was protecting himself from a physical strike. He could barely believe it. In the midst of a rather stinging response (the 'Great Jaffee' point was particularly sharp, and accurate, as little as Isaac wanted to admit it), Chris Murphy had dropped a hand grenade. Right on Isaac's lap. That's what it felt like, anyway.  
  
Chris stood in the hallway, trying to avoid shaking. He only hoped he wouldn't bump into any other CSC employees right now, for fear that he might tear their limbs off. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and hurried down the hall to the elevator. He wanted to punch everything. Now would be a very good time to check out the new office, see if it needed redecorating. Like maybe a few holes, here and there.  
  
Dana tried to keep quiet and hidden as Murphy hurried past the door she was hiding behind. She'd been outside Isaac's office, approaching the door just as the verbal fireworks detonated. When she realized the conversation had finished - and rather abruptly at that - she found shelter in the empty meeting room next to his office. And in the nick of time, too. Murphy had come out of his meeting with Isaac looking like a man possessed. She watched him close his eyes and clench his hands, then open them again, seeming all the while to be trying to find his breathing again.  
Dana Whitaker's mother didn't raise a fool. There was no way she was going to risk stepping into his path. Once he was on the elevator, and behind the heavy doors, only then did she step back into the hall. Once there, it was back to the office, to pretend to get back to work, and wonder who was next on his list.  
  
Casey looked back at his computer screen. Something about NCAA violations was being written, but his interest in writing had obviously evaporated as the afternoon drew to a close, and the new boss drew closer. And Dana's drop-in didn't help any. Well, this nonsense had to end. "Okay, Case," he muttered, "Break's over. Magic Time has begun."  
As he re-read his work, Dan stormed in, dropping a pile of videotapes on his desk. "God damn pile of - "  
Casey glanced up, then back at his monitor. C'mon, Magic Time!  
"Stupid marathon piece. I don't have any of the clips I need. And why? Because a dozen of the tapes were mislabeled. So I have to go through all of them one by one for about the hundredth time. Pain in the ass." He slapped his desktop. "I shouldn't have ever started this project. Shouldn't even have brought it up. You were right."  
No magic. Casey typed 'the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog' a few times, so Dan wouldn't suspect anything.  
Dan waited for a response, but Casey wasn't giving him anything. "And - and - the two clips I could find are all screwed up for some reason, so I have to try to fix them. That's more time wasted on this windmill. Which you warned me about."  
Casey sighed, and pretended to stare at something on his monitor.  
"And now with Chris Murphy coming in, it's just the rotting cherry on my tuna fish ice cream." Dan noticed Casey's sandwich on the edge of the desk, and Casey's hand pushing it into the trash can. It rustled the plastic bag, and thumped against the bottom. "Coincidence. I swear."  
Casey finally met his partner's eyes. "I'm trying to work here, Dan."  
"I know. Magic Time, right?"  
"Right. Magic Time. So if you don't mind. . ." Casey turned his attention back to the computer, re-typing the first part of the story.  
"I'm sorry. About what I said earlier."  
Casey stopped typing.  
Dan decided to take this as a good sign. "You have your right to an opinion, like me, like anybody else. So while I can't agree with you about Chris Murphy being the right guy for CSC - past history being what it is - but I had no right to be a jackass about it, either."  
Casey shook his head, a small smile crossing his lips. "Okay."  
Definitely a good sign. "So we're still friends?"  
Casey looked up at Dan. "I don't know. I'll have to talk it over with Chris, him being my new best friend and all." He said it with a wide-eyed look that made Dan want to punch him.  
Dan didn't, of course. He deserved it. He'd never say that, though. "Not funny, Case." He picked up the top tape from his desk, frowning at it, and then, without warning, his face lit up. "That's right, Bob was holding them!" he blurted.  
"Uh, Dan?" Casey asked.  
Dan grinned. "Bob had them! The tapes I wanted, I mean."  
"He might have already boxed them up, or had them picked up," Casey said.  
"Ah, you're a killjoy. I'm going up to his former office to see if the ones he'd found are still there," he said.  
"Happy hunting," Casey said absently.  
"Thanks," Dan said as he left. Then he poked his head back in. "Oh, and 'quick brown fox' is going to sound weird in your piece. Might want to change that part," he said, slipping out the door again.  
Casey frowned. This was officially the worst Magic Time in history.  
  
Chris was calming down nicely. The quiet of the dark office was helping. He looked at the walls, already bare, and the boxes brimming with personal items. Bob would be back tomorrow, with security flanking him, and he would take his paraphernalia with him. Chris would stay out of the way - he'd take meetings with Programming in the morning and Business Affairs in the afternoon - mostly to avoid having to cross paths with a person who might not like him very much. Chris didn't want it that way, but with the speed of his ascension, that's how it was going to be.  
Another person who won't like me, actually, he mused. At least I won't have to deal with him on a day-to-day basis, he added. That was something he wasn't looking forward to, and his rough meeting with Isaac convinced him that it wasn't going to be easy, dealing with people he'd pissed off before. Plus he had all-new people to meet and upset.  
"Breathe, dammit," he commanded himself.  
Inhale. Exhale. It often amazed him that after all these years, he still had to remind himself to do it when his blood was up.  
And on the topic of blood, he was still trying to figure out what to say to Dan Rydell. Chris was going to meet with the entire Sports Night staff at pre-show, a scant thirty minutes away. He had his speech to the troops planned, but the words to Dan, they just weren't coming. He tried to form some semblance of pleasantries as he looked out one of the windows, and found the words lost in his admiration of the cityscape. At least I'll have a nice view of the world from here, he mused.  
  
The doors opened and Dan stepped off the elevator. He hoped Bob's office would be unlocked. 


	3. Enter: Stage Left

SPORTS NIGHT - INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES  
  
[DISCLAIMER: The following is an original work of fiction based on the television series Sports Night, created by Aaron Sorkin and produced by Touchstone Television and Imagine Entertainment.]  
  
[ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMERS: Time Warner Cable is a service mark of AOL Time Warner. AP and Associated Press are trademarks of the Associated Press. The team names "Baltimore Colts" and "Arizona Cardinals" are trademarks of the National Football League. The team name "St. Louis Cardinals" is a trademark of Major League Baseball.]  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Enter . . . Stage Left  
  
Twenty-five minutes to pre-show, Dana was nowhere to be seen. Normally, she would be lingering in the bullpen, or checking the wires, or jousting with Dan or Casey or Isaac about one thing or another. But she wasn't doing any of those things. And Natalie needed to find her. A friend from her college days who worked for the Associated Press had called Natalie about the Stratosphere news - they were about to break the story nationwide.  
"Is it true?" her friend had asked. "They're taking possession immediately?"  
"I can't confirm anything, Jeff," Natalie replied. "That's not my department."  
"Jesus, Natalie, we're off the record," he said, doing his best impression of taking offense.  
"When it comes to CSC business, I've learned the hard way that 'off the record' doesn't exist."  
Jeff exhaled into the phone. "Fine. I just thought you'd want to know. The AP is flashing it across the business and sports wires at six o'clock Eastern time, with or without your confirmation."  
Natalie frowned. "Why then? Why not wait to send it until after we've made an announcement?"  
He paused, then said, "It's a scoop, Natalie. You remember what those are, right?"  
She could almost see his smirk. It was time to see how strong the friendship was. "Jeff, you've got to let us unleash this. The last time we were beaten to the punch about our own fate, it was more than embarrassing - we were humiliated, and on our own turf." She decided to add something that might satiate him. "I saw them writing the piece earlier today, for broadcast at the top of the prime-time edition."  
"So an announcement is coming?"  
  
"Yeah," Natalie lied. "At the open of the show."  
Jeff was quiet for a moment. "I'll talk to my boss. We might be able to push the alert back a half-hour. Maybe. But Nat, if I don't see it, I don't know exactly what I'll be writing about in the follow- up."  
She caught his drift. So Natalie needed to talk to Dana.  
She found Dana in her office, oddly enough, parked behind her desk, working rather furiously at pushing papers into folders, dotting old I's and crossing new T's. "Uh, you're working? Now? Before pre-show?" Natalie asked.  
Dana didn't look up. "That's what I do, Nat. I work here. And I want to continue to work here. So I'd better look like I belong in the regime."  
Natalie shut the door behind herself. "The Associated Press knows. Somebody told them."  
"Somebody told them?"  
"He asked me for confirmation."  
"He?"  
"Jeff. He's a friend of mine from college."  
"Boyfriend?"  
"No. Well, not really."  
"Oh. Was he the short guy with the round head?"  
"No, Jeff's tall. Remember, I brought him to the Christmas party?"  
Dana frowned. "Which party?"  
"Christmas, this last one."  
"And he's tall? I can't picture him."  
"Dana, he wanted confirmation."  
"About Stratosphere?"  
"No, about you hating Casey's girlfriend," Natalie said off- handedly.  
Dana stopped shuffling, and locked her blue eyes onto Natalie's brown ones. "I don't hate Sheri. I don't." Dana shook her head. "Hate's not a strong enough word. And where did that come from anyway?"  
"I hadn't mentioned it yet today. So what are we going to do?"  
"About Sheri? Dangle her off a bridge, maybe."  
"Not funny."  
"Yes, it is." Dana tried not to savor the image forming in her mind, and found the best way: getting back to business. "I guess we'll make an announcement. Did your friend give you a clue regarding time?"  
"Six-thirty, Eastern, at the latest."  
"So I guess we'll get to prevent a scoop. Have Dan or Casey write something up for the open. Nothing too involved, just the basics."  
"Yeah, something like CSC's in the hands of another large corporate entity, please enjoy us while we last." Natalie frowned, hard.  
Dana offered a wry smile in response. "Hey, hey, still open, remember?"  
Natalie forced the corners of her mouths up again. "Right. A brave face and all that. Now I'm off to spread good cheer." And then she was.  
Dana shook off her smile after Natalie was gone, and went back to work.  
  
The sunlight was fading nicely now, and The Big Apple was beginning to earn its reputation once again. Little by little, lights flickered to life on street corners and through building windows, and grew brighter and livelier as the seconds passed. The people on the streets were moving away from the workplaces, and toward the places where they could rest.  
Chris watched it all from his new office, letting the changing mood out there change his in here. She would have loved this view of the city, Chris decided. No, he wasn't sitting above the clouds, looking down upon the masses scuttling from one steel and glass structure to another, heady with authority and position, and that's precisely why she would have loved it. "You've got a lot to be proud of," he could almost hear her say, "but not that much." Then she would have smiled, and that would have melted him. Looking into the gathering dark of the night sky, he could practically see that sweet expression.  
But not quite.  
  
Dan was grinning from ear to ear as he strode to Bob Epperson's former office. Tomorrow, it would be Chris Murphy's, but for tonight, it was unoccupied, except for boxed-up memories, memoranda, and the tapes Bob had acquired for Dan. Bob had the tapes, and he kept them. Dan would've put a year's pay on it. Granted, he didn't have much time to find them right now, maybe twenty minutes, tops, then it was time for pre- show, and then the show, but after all that? All the time in the world.  
Of course, Dan reasoned, if Bob's office was in disarray, or if he'd packed them in a box that was buried under a billion others, they'd take a lot longer to find. But Bob Epperson had the tapes, and he hadn't turned them over to anyone else yet, Dan was sure of that.  
He reached for the doorknob.  
  
Chris heard his cell phone ring. He plucked it from his coat pocket. "This is Murphy," he said.  
"Chris," a familiar voice said. "You're actually there?"  
"I hope so, Brian," Chris replied. "Checking in on me, huh?"  
O'Rourke chuckled. There was a crackle of static. "You didn't expect this call?"  
Chris frowned. Of course, Brian called. He always did. It's called tradition. It's also called keeping the reins tight. Chris lost the frown before he replied, replacing it with a half-smile. "I would hope by now that you would trust me to be on site, on time, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and all that jazz."  
"Known you too long for that, Chris." O'Rourke sounded bored. "So how's CSC treating you so far?"  
"As well as I could have expected."  
"No rough patches yet?"  
"Lots of eyeballs, no run-ins." Chris re-thought his words, then added, "Well, nothing I can't handle."  
O'Rourke was quiet for a moment, then said, rather coolly, "I told Isaac Jaffee to welcome you. Did he?"  
Chris tried to keep his voice light. "Very graciously."  
"A creditable effort on that lie," O'Rourke said.  
Chris groaned. "Fine. He made it clear that I'm not invited over to dinner anytime soon. And he's also sure that I'm going to break the damn channel. History being what it is, I can't say I blame him," Chris said. "But I am hopeful that we can - "  
" - settle into a stable and positive working relationship?" There was the boredom again.  
Chris shrugged. "Sure, that's as good as anything I could have come up with." He noticed the lights in the office across the way snapping off. "Still haven't talked with Rydell yet."  
"Wow," O'Rourke said. "Don't sound so enthusiastic."  
  
Dan had heard the ring tone. It had stopped his hand an inch from the doorknob. Then there was that voice, unchanged after all these years. Dan craned his neck closer to the door, just to be sure he wasn't imagining things.  
He wasn't.  
That was Chris Murphy's voice. He was talking to someone important, Dan could tell. His tone was that of a pure sycophant. Dan recognized that in particular. It was something Murphy excelled at - probably because he'd practiced it so often - and it made Dan nauseous.  
And then Dan heard his last name. The way Murphy said it, like a picky seven-year old talking about broccoli. Dan frowned harder.  
"The thing about it is," Dan believed Murphy was saying, "I don't have a clue what to say."  
Then Murphy's yes-man voice was quiet for a minute.  
Then a laugh. "I don't think I could say that," Murphy said.  
"Asshole," Dan hissed.  
The videotapes would have to wait until later, he decided. The wardrobe ladies were going to get an early visit instead, and then he'd give his copy a quick once-over, maybe even find a sandwich. With time to spare, he thought.  
As Dan found his way back to the elevator, he felt his mood lighten a little more. He didn't feel like having to deal with Murphy today, and by leaving now, he wouldn't have to worry about receiving memos from Corporate about not killing the new boss.  
  
Chris paused in mid-laugh. Was there somebody at his door? Dan, maybe? He thought he might have heard someone, and he began crossing the room to check -  
"Why so quiet? Paranoia flashback?" O'Rourke asked.  
- and that brought Chris back. "No," he said. "Just thought someone was knocking." Chris decided to talk business. It would keep him from having to deal with the Dan issue for the moment. "How'd the meeting with Time Warner Cable go?"  
O'Rourke's voice found a distinctly different pitch. "Meh. Hard to read them. They say they're willing to strike a deal, and I tend to believe them, but we're still miles apart on pricing. And QV's blood, still being in the water and all, means we're probably going to have to give a lot more leeway, fee structure-wise, than we'd like." O'Rourke seemed to pause for dramatic effect. "Any way you slice it, until CSC is the toast of cable television, and Stratosphere's channel free-and-clear, the operators are going to have the muscle at the bargaining table." O'Rourke's voice darkened. "The board's going to love hearing that."  
The board. Chris had almost forgot. "The meeting's at ten tomorrow, right?"  
"Ten in Denver. Noon in New York. So dial in around quarter- to, that way you can make your report first thing - and avoid embarrassing your boss."  
"Last thing I'd want to do, Brian."  
"Remember that." Then O'Rourke was gone.  
Chris slid the phone back into his pocket. He went back to the door and opened it wide. Nobody in the hall, and it didn't look like anybody had been there. Chris shut the door again. He probably was being paranoid. First night jitters, sure, he thought. He also thought that he could use a good, stiff drink right now.  
Thank God there isn't one around, he mused.  
  
Natalie caught up to Dan as he was stepping off the elevator. "Hey, Nat," he said, giving her a disinterested smile, not stopping for anything more.  
She took to his pace. "Dan, would you do something for me?"  
"Virtually anything. Name it."  
"We're making the announcement at the top of the show."  
Dan stopped in his tracks. "The announcement? About Stratosphere?" His voice was tight.  
"Yeah," Natalie replied.  
"Wasn't that supposed to happen tomorrow? A press conference, lots of whoop-dee-doo, all that?"  
  
"Yes. They're still doing the press conference, but we're first out of the gate."  
"Why now?"  
"Remember Jeff?"  
"The non-ex-boyfriend who's an AP writer?"  
"That's the guy. Dana didn't remember him."  
"I do. He passed out in my office. What about him?"  
"He called me trying to get confirmation. Apparently, somebody leaked it to them, along with some details. He told me that he'd try to hold it back from the wires until we had a chance to break it ourselves, but he's not going to give us long."  
"So she needs someone to read a statement."  
"That's exactly it. Sort of."  
"Sort of?"  
"She needs it written first. Then read."  
Dan shook his head. "Why ask me?"  
Natalie tried her best 'offended' voice. "Because you're the best writer in the business, and more than that, when our viewers hear it from you, they'll believe that we'll be okay, even if we don't feel that way."  
After pretending to consider this, Dan grimaced. "You couldn't find Casey, huh?"  
Natalie shook her head. "He must have slipped past the guard dogs."  
  
Isaac peeked into Dana's office, and found her busy on some housekeeping - namely, reshuffling pages in her show book. She seemed to be sweating over them, trying to put them into an order that other people could comprehend. It made him smile a bit, until he realized that she was probably doing it for Chris Murphy's benefit, and she shouldn't have to do that. The smile was gone as he rapped gently on her door, just as she raised her eyes. "Excuse me, Dana, I don't mean to interrupt," he said, "but I just wanted to say good night."  
She took off her reading glasses, and set them on the desk. "You're going now? Before pre-show?"  
"Yes," he said. "It's been a long day, and what I need right now is not here. No offense."  
"None taken," Dana replied. Then, carefully, she added, "I heard a little of the - nastiness - from outside your office."  
Isaac shook his head sadly. "Sorry about that. Murphy and I, we don't have a good past. He asked something of a flippant question relating to that, and. . . ," Isaac's words drifted away as he noticed the look on Dana's face. There was no need to involve her in his feud, he decided, continuing, ". . .and I don't really feel like dwelling on it. It's too late, and I'm too tired."  
"So you're heading home?" Dana asked, reaching for her glasses again.  
"Not right away. I called an old friend; we're meeting for dinner. After that, I'll be at home." Isaac paused. "And tomorrow too, I think."  
Dana froze. "Are you feeling all right, Isaac?"  
Isaac smiled at the question. "My health is fine. My emotions, though, they're a little out of sorts. I just need a long weekend. I'll be better on Monday."  
That seemed to satisfy her for the moment. Still she started to ask, "But the show - "  
He was ready to block that maneuver. " - is in good hands," he interrupted, and added, "Trusted hands." He emphasized 'trusted.' "So have a good show, and call me if there's an emergency." Isaac started out the door.  
"We're making the announcement. Apparently, the AP is about send a flash over the wires," Dana said.  
"At least we got a heads-up this time. Do what you have to do."  
"What about Murphy?" Dana asked, stopping him.  
Isaac didn't turn around at first. "Tell him I'm taking some vacation days, and you're able to speak for me on all show-related issues. Again, good, trusted hands." And then he turned back to meet her eyes. "Dana, dear, we're in the early rounds yet. Nobody's throwing in the towel." Then he was out the door, saying quite clearly, "Especially me."  
  
Natalie looked over at Jeremy, who was at his seat in the booth, sifting through some paperwork of his own. It was all research: a handful of NFL trade histories, a three-season statistical overview of the Cleveland bullpen, the last five winners at Daytona and their best lap times, plus a few other mind-twisters that only the hardest of the hardcore sports junkies would even want to know. He was glancing at the sheets, then setting them aside when he seemed satisfied that he'd absorbed the most pertinent information.  
She knew his routine. He did this when he was ticked off at someone, specifically her. The last time they broke up - for the absolute, once-and-for-all, final time, she added - he spent five full days committing the complete statistical history of the Baltimore Colts to memory. She knew this because every time she passed his desk, his nose was buried in some yellowing text, and she could hear him whispering Johnny Unitas's game-to-game completion-to-touchdown ratio over and over to himself.  
Time to warm the air between them. "Jeremy," she started, "I apologize for this afternoon."  
He didn't look over at her. "Forget it."  
Still icy, she thought. "No, I won't," she said, trying her best to sound chastened. "I'm sorry you were embarrassed. We shouldn't have been spying; you were right."  
Jeremy stopped reading his research, but he still didn't turn his eyes to her. "Fine. I accept your apology. Now, can we bury this topic?"  
Okay, the conciliatory approach wasn't working. "I don't want you to be mad at me. We have to work together and keep the show going and if we can't be civil to each other - "  
His head turned at that. "Civility? You want civility? Then stop talking to me, dammit." His words had a stinging snap to them.  
Natalie frowned as she watched him climb from his chair and leave the booth. He passed Dana at the door. She gave him a confused look, to which he replied, "I left something at my desk."  
Natalie noted Dana's attention shifting to her, followed by a furtive headshake. Natalie sighed. Jeremy was probably heading for his jai-alai archives.  
  
Dana watched as the techs moved about the studio, adjusting light levels on the set and the background, re-marking fixed camera positions, and running a few lengths of cable out of camera shot. Pre-show had two stated - and necessary - purposes, Dana knew, both of them technical: it was a good, dry run for cue calls in the booth, and it allowed for repairs, big or small.  
The side benefit? It brought everyone together and focused their attention, which was something desperately needed, tonight of all nights. She watched as Casey and Dan walked up to the desk and found their chairs. They were going through their parts like always, reading ins and outs off the Teleprompter, occasionally interrupted by the director, who was running them from cue to cue.  
Everything was normal, Dana told herself. Still doing Sports Night, still working at CSC. Still here, she thought.  
Except Isaac. Isaac had taken his leave of them. Abandoned them, even.  
Dana shook her head at that thought, and tried to breathe easy. She'd been in charge of the show a bunch of times, and when Isaac's condition was gravest, she'd had to make some extremely tough choices without any input from him.  
Isaac wasn't abandoning anyone, she thought, trying to convince herself of something she couldn't guarantee.  
An opening line from the studio reminded her to break in to the machine-like precision of the rehearsal. "Casey?" she said into her headset. "We're going to push the Cincinnati - Baltimore trade into the thirties, so maybe put together a tease for the opening and at the first break."  
Over the monitors, she watched Casey nod. Not a problem, he was saying. The director continued the cue call, and Dana resumed her fretting. She was remembering her first glimpse of Chris Murphy, trying to compose himself in a hallway, and not doing it very well. Maybe he wouldn't show up. She could always hope for that.  
  
"We're out. Two minutes back," the director's voice called over the studio P.A. Casey swiveled around in his seat, taking a sip from his water bottle, while one of the wardrobe assistants showed him the jacket for the early show.  
Dan leaned over to his friend. "Did you see that piece on the Cardinals that Jeremy did?"  
"Arizona or St. Louis?" Casey asked.  
"St. Louis. They've got a fight on their hands at second base come Spring Training."  
"Yeah, the kid from the Triple-A club, he's something. Good hands, great bat. I'll be surprised if he doesn't get a serious look," Casey said.  
"Yeah," Dan said, as the wardrobe people finished up. As they were laying out a selection of ties for him, he said quietly, "Listen, Case, could you do something for me?"  
"So we weren't just making chit-chat," Casey said with a small smile. "Could I? Yes. Will I? That's another question."  
Dan lowered his voice. "Natalie asked me to make the announcement."  
"The announcement? The Stratosphere one?"  
"Can you think of another announcement we'd be making?"  
"I thought that was happening tomorrow morning."  
"We're about to be scooped," Dan said sadly. "That is, we will be, if we don't put it out there first."  
Casey shook his head. "Well, we can't let that happen again, can we?"  
"Would you do it?"  
"Me?" Casey asked. He gave Dan a half-smirk. "Why? You don't want to do it?"  
Dan frowned. "I'm not the right voice for corporate duties. I mean, that's not to say that you're a yes-man or anything, it's just that I - "  
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Casey said. "I'll do it. But you'll have to stand in for me the next time they want autographs signed at the up- fronts."  
Dan grinned. "You've spent that nickel."  
"Fine, then I want a favor to be named later."  
"Done."  
  
Chris was off the elevator and heading for the studio. No need to put it off any longer. He figured that if pre-show had started on time - and the odds were good that it had - he would have a very brief window for his introduction. He went over his words once more as he rounded the corner toward the booth.  
The staff was hard at work when he arrived, and he could feel the butterflies once again flapping in his belly. It wasn't a nervous reaction, though, but one of a producer who'd been out of the game long enough to forget the excitement surrounding showtime. The crew looked tight, like a great band. They were ready for a show now, and they'd be that way afterward, too. And for the first time since - well, since he couldn't really remember - Chris Murphy felt like he was about to be something more than just a conglomerate's hired gun. He felt like he was going to be part of something good. And he wanted that more than anything.  
He tapped on the glass door, and watched the faces in the booth turn to him.  
Enter stage left, he thought.  
  
The restaurant, Jerry's of Manhattan, had been Isaac's choice, as it usually was. He hadn't set foot inside in some time, but nothing had changed. The lights were dim, the air was thick with the smell of grilled beef steaks, and the wait staff sharply uniformed, down to the pressed button-down collars and polished shoes. Isaac smiled to himself, glad he had picked it for their meeting. He'd huddled there with various associates on more than one occasion, some glad, some not, and usually not because of the food. That wasn't to say Jerry's meals weren't edible - the menu featured good, if basic, choices from a couple of the major food groups - but this was one of those restaurants where the atmosphere was just right for conversation. You were afforded your privacy here, and the better you tipped, the more privacy you had. Isaac was led to the corner table by a tall, elegant hostess; a woman that recognized Isaac, but wasn't remembered in return.  
"I have one of those faces, I suppose," she said as she walked.  
Isaac tried to apologize. "No, ma'am. I'm just distracted."  
The hostess indicated a chair. "Is there anything I can do for you?"  
Isaac lowered himself into the seat. "When Mr. DiPaolo arrives, bring him over right away. And send the wine steward now."  
  
Dana saw Chris Murphy up close for the first time - saw him wave, saw him try to smile. He wasn't hiding, and he didn't look angry. He was simply dropping in, like a friendly neighbor, or a close relative.  
Or the quiet loner who lived next door, she added.  
Almost immediately, she hated herself for thinking that. It wasn't fair to him. First impressions being what they are, he might not think that much of her, either. So it might be best to extend the first olive branch. She opened the door for him, and said, perhaps too loudly, "Hi! Welcome to Sports Night!" Her hand shot towards him.  
  
This had to be Dana Whitaker, Chris mused. At least she was over-compensating in a positive direction. He took her offered hand and shook it, feeling her nervous energy shooting squarely into him. He loosened his grip before she did. "Ms. Whitaker, right?" he asked, even though he was sure that's who he was dealing with.  
"Yes, indeed, that's me," she said. "And you're the infamous Chris Murphy."  
Infamous? Already? He ignored it. "Good to finally meet you."  
"Yes. You, too."  
He leaned closer to her. "Listen, I don't want to get in the way tonight, but I did want to introduce myself to your people, if that's alright with you."  
Dana nodded, somewhat absently. "Sure, that'd be - that'd be fine." She turned to the director. "Could we call a five-minute break, and have everybody mingle in the studio? Mr. Murphy wants to talk to the troops."  
As the director called the break over the PA, and the booth began to empty, Chris said, "And if you could drop by my office after the show tonight, I'd appreciate it."  
  
The request threw Dana for a loop. She was still in a daze from his first request. But she nodded in agreement again, just as involuntarily as before. What did he want from her?  
Somehow, she took him by the elbow and led him to the studio. She noticed Casey standing, she noticed Dan leaving, and quickly at that. And while Casey's expression was something of cipher, Dan's was crystal-clear.  
  
The various people of Sports Night stood in a semi-circle around Chris. At least two members of the team were missing, namely Isaac and Dan, and he couldn't say he was surprised. Dan had bolted from the studio when he entered with Dana, giving them both dirty looks as he disappeared behind the set. Chris guessed that Isaac had decided to take the evening off, and he thought that was just as well.  
He could feel the tension, the distrust, and the uncertainty radiating from the people who stood before him. He was intimately acquainted with those emotions. He also knew that this was no time to feed those little demons. He gave himself a breath, then began to speak, in his clearest tone. "For the two or three of you who don't know, my name is Chris Murphy and I'm the new executive producer here at CSC. I'm not here to hold you up; I just wanted to drop in, introduce myself, and also tell you that I'm a fan. Sports Night is one of the few shows on television that I watch regularly. I've seen it from the beginning, in fact, and I gotta say, I'm constantly impressed. You do great work here, all of you."  
Chris let the compliment settle, then said, "I know that many of you have questions and concerns about the future. I can't answer any of those yet. But let me tell you about the now. There are no changes planned for Sports Night. Not one. That is not to say that changes will not occur, but that they certainly will not be happening tonight. Or tomorrow, or next week. And when changes are going to be made - hell, even when they are being considered - I won't be making those choices alone. Your input and continued dedication to this program are necessary for its growth, and the growth of CSC, now more than ever. So for the time- being, I will simply observe your process. You have Sports Night down to a science, and I'd be a fool if I didn't let you do your jobs."  
At that, he looked at Dana. "Thank you for your time. Ms. Whitaker, do your show." Then he watched as the crowd began to disperse.  
Dana looked at him. "So. After the show?"  
"Bob Epperson's old office," Chris said. He began to leave the studio, but not before he added, "And bring tonight's book along." 


	4. If You Want to Make a Chicken

SPORTS NIGHT – INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES  
  
[DISCLAIMER: The following is an original work of fiction of based on the television series "SportsNight" created by Aaron Sorkin and produced by Imagine Entertainment and Touchstone Television.]  
  
Chapter Four  
  
If You Want to Make a Chicken, You Have to Lay a Few Eggs  
  
Greg DiPaolo watched Isaac spike his salad fork into a cucumber slice, and lift it to his waiting mouth, which took it in, and then the mechanics of the jaw went to work. He was so deliberate with it, Greg mused, he seemed almost angry at the defenseless pre-pickle. That's when he was sure that something wasn't right in the world. Well, that's what clinched it, anyway.  
He decided to find out. "So. What are we doing here, Isaac?" he asked.  
Isaac paused in mid-chew, and their aging eyes met. "I thought we'd be able to chat over dinner. You know, old friends and comrades, swapping battle stories and such. Like we've promised to do a hundred times the last few years." He went back to his salad.  
Greg chuckled. "That's it?"  
"Yes." Isaac didn't look up this time.  
Greg shook his head. "Then invite me up to the house. I'm sure we'd have a much better time there. I haven't seen your wife in a few lifetimes. And I bet you haven't either. Plus, if you let me bring Betsy up with me, you might finally break even with her in that gin game you two had running."  
Isaac smiled. "I'm down eight hundred dollars."  
"Eight hundred and eleven dollars. She faxed me an IOU for you to sign." Greg patted his breast pocket.  
"You married a card sharp."  
Greg shrugged. "I owed her money."  
Isaac nodded. "And you loved her."  
"Nothing's changed on either front." Greg looked around, and asked, "So, why are we here?"  
Isaac pushed his salad away. "What's with the questions?"  
"We've been friends for thirty-seven years."  
"Thirty-six. And a half."  
"And I like Jerry's, and I thank you for calling me out of the blue to have a decent meal with you, but Isaac," he said, deepening his voice for emphasis, "we're having dinner at Jerry's."  
Isaac sat back, silent, so Greg continued. "Whenever you or I needed to have one of our patented 'serious conversations', we came here. This is where we talk. Last time we sat in one of these booths, you were having another blow-out with Luther Sachs. You were fantasizing about beating him over the head with his own focus group research, and then taking that offer from NBC."  
"God, that was a long time ago," Isaac sighed.  
"Lifetimes, Isaac. Lifetimes. And considering the fact that you're paying for dinner with a CSC credit card – "  
"Meant to use my own, forgot it at home."  
"- that tells me you decided that staying was worth it. So, Isaac, could we skip the cover story and get down to business?"  
  
Chris drummed his fingertips on the blank desktop blotter. The television monitor was alive, but silent, projecting highlights of spring training baseball games into his field of vision. But he wasn't really noticing the action. He was still thinking about Dan's furious gaze before vanishing behind the set. Like he was a thief.  
No, Chris decided. That look was special. One Chris had seen in the eyes of others, but never directed at him. It was a look of hate, all poison and fire and death. Chris briefly wondered if he'd see that expression again tonight, then felt a twinge of shame. Dan Rydell was a professional on the air. Always. It's what made him one of the best anchors in the business.  
And besides, Chris wasn't going to be anywhere near Dan's eyeline during tonight's show.  
  
"Thirty seconds to air," the director said over the PA.  
Dan dropped into his chair as the announcement ended. "You hear what that – that A-hole – said?"  
Casey frowned a bit, pretending to check his notes. "Which A- hole?"  
"If you're trying to be funny. . . "  
". . . I oughta try harder," Casey said. "Yes. I heard what Murphy said."  
Dan was trying very hard to not spit fire all over the desk. "A fan. A fan of the show. Can you believe that? Well, that just makes you the perfect choice, doesn't it, you little – I don't believe he had the balls to say it. I knew he'd say something like that, but to just flat out say he's a fan. . . "  
"He couldn't actually be one?"  
"Chris Murphy? No. Never in a million years."  
Casey fixed his eyes on his friend's. "Dan. I don't want to talk about this."  
"About Chris Murphy, you mean."  
"About how you loathe him. I've gotten rather tired – in one day, no less – of hearing you bitch and moan about someone who did you wrong at one time in your life."  
Dan bit the inside of lip. "It was more than that."  
"Ten seconds, guys," the PA announced.  
"Who gives a damn?" Casey fairly shouted. Seeing the faces of the crew turning in his direction, he leaned close to his partner, and dropped his voice. "Except you, of course. He's in charge, for however long he's in charge, so get over it and get back to your job, before you lose it. And if you're going to seethe over whatever this crap is about, and not just tell me about it, you might at least have to courtesy to do it somewhere that I'm not." Then Casey shook off his darkened expression, and looked towards Camera Two.  
Dan swallowed hard, and took a breath. He wanted to say something, but then the floor director started her countdown to air, and it was too late.  
". . .three, two. . ."  
  
Isaac finished laying it out for DiPaolo, and tried to gauge the other man's reaction. Stratosphere's 'fall-in-line' policy earned an empathetic nod. Of course Greg understood micro-managers; they'd shared more than one at one time or another. Bob Epperson's firing scored a wry half-smile; Greg and Bob had been personally acquainted for nearly fifteen years. And naturally, The Replacement Whose Name He Could Not Speak drew a sad shake of the head.  
And then Greg suddenly smiled. It was broad, almost delighted. "So I guess the rumors are true."  
Isaac's mouth was suddenly dry. "Rumors?"  
Greg laughed like he had no choice. "Chris Murphy got his wish, huh?"  
Isaac drank from his water glass to keep from choking. "Stop smiling and tell me about these rumors that I've never heard a whisper of," he said between deep swigs.  
  
Dana watched her friends' faces morph from rough and angry to smooth and happy inside a five-second countdown. One of the tools of the good anchor was the ability to put away personal problems in a matter of seconds, and it was an impressive skill. She wished they didn't have to do a show now, though. Every cutaway to a live shot, every commercial break, every taped piece that took them off-camera was going to be potentially disastrous.  
She had wanted to jump between them during their huddle, or put them in opposite corners, or hell, send them to their rooms without supper. Anything that would keep them from having to swallow all their anger and frustration with each other, making themselves sick with it.  
Hey, if anybody had a right to be sick, it was her. After all, they didn't have to go to the boss's office after this and probably justify every decision that she made tonight, or the night before, or the night before –  
"Dana? You okay?" Jeremy asked her.  
"No. Someone take over, please," Dana said, her voice raspy, and she leaped from her perch and headed for the door.  
"That's the greenest face I've ever seen," Kim said after she was gone.  
"Just wait until the show's over," Elliot replied. "Those two in there, they're going to be in the running."  
  
"Good evening from New York City, I'm Casey McCall, he's Dan Rydell, and welcome into this special early edition of Sports Night Prime Time," Casey said. "At the top of the next hour, it's indoor football from the fraudulent tundra of Des Moines, and we'll have a preview of that contest shortly. And later tonight we'll find out about some corners and Cardinals." He turned his eyes to his partner, whose expression couldn't have been more blank.  
But Dan took the hand-off, smooth as always. "The Arizona variety may have painted themselves into a contractual corner over a star corner, while the St. Louis breed may have found a replacement for Rey Bebe in their hot corner, because as Patrick Swayze once proclaimed in Casey's favorite movie ever, 'no one puts Bebe in a corner.' But we begin tonight doing what we love the most – talking about ourselves."  
Casey felt the words coming out of his mouth before he knew he was speaking. "Continental Sports Channel, which, if you didn't notice, is what you're tuned to right now, has been sold by the representatives of the former owner Quo Vadimus - pending federal regulatory approval - to the Stratosphere Corporation of Denver, Colorado for an undisclosed sum of cash and stock."   
Dan noticed the company logos appearing over Casey's shoulder on the monitor. Subtle, he thought. Why don't they just bring out a cattle brand and start burning it into our foreheads?  
"Started in 1959 as a pair of network affiliates in Colorado, it has grown into one of the nation's leading broadcast, cable, and satellite companies, owning and operating a dozen broadcast television stations in the United States, as well as over sixty radio stations, ten cable and satellite channels, and its own cable television company," Casey said, finding himself taken aback just a bit. He hadn't realized how big the new boss really was. And for some reason, Casey wasn't scared. In fact, he began to feel a strange comfort. Perhaps it came from the sense that for the first time in a long time, the owner actually understood the business.   
That comfort creeped into Casey's voice. "Stratosphere's purchase is still pending FCC and SEC approval, which is likely to be determined within the next six to eight weeks. An official announcement will be held in Denver at Stratosphere's offices tomorrow afternoon at two p.m. Eastern time. CSC will carry that announcement live."   
Casey paused, and looked over at Dan. As their eyes met, Casey saw something sad in Dan's expression, unexpressed but plain as day. Then it was gone again as Dan took the hand-off once more, and with a cheery voice, said, "But since we've got a few hours to kill until then, let's turn our attention to the Orioles of Baltimore, and to their revolving-door bullpen."  
  
Chris recognized Dan's expression. It had been meant just for Casey, but Chris saw it, too. He'd seen it before from that same man. And it always preceded trouble.  
Chris shook his head to free himself from his own memory. Other than that crack, the announcement had been handled, and just fine. Chris hadn't even digested Casey's delivery when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, as if he had to. "So, Brian," he said into the phone, "I heard the strangest thing on the tee-vee just now."  
  
Greg had been trying to force the corners of his mouth down. He didn't want to seem like he was reveling in Isaac's obvious discomfort. "A year ago Murphy was out in California somewhere, doing management-via- consultation work at one of Stratosphere's cable channels. All the while he's watching CSC's decline, and telling anyone who would listen that he wanted to be running CSC. He was shouting from the highest hills that he knew what needed to be done to make the channel fly, and that he'd be willing to do just about anything his employer wanted, as long as he got his shot."  
Isaac's throat was still dry and tight. After more water, he asked, "Why wasn't this public knowledge? Or at least, why the hell didn't you tell me?"  
Greg shook his head. "Stratosphere's bid was low-ball, so nobody thought they were a serious contender. And I guess that Murphy didn't believe that he had a shot at it with them anyway. He was interviewing for jobs at companies that were against Stratosphere's play, with only the barest slip of a promise from anybody that he'd get his shot."  
Isaac's eyes were blazing. "And I was kept out of the loop because – "  
"There was no loop," Greg groaned. "Murphy would have been at or near the bottom of any list for that job."  
"So how'd he end up at the top of Stratosphere's?"  
"I don't know that."  
"You know everything else," Isaac spat.  
Greg shifted in his seat. Something was very wrong. "I know what I heard and it was a lot, but not everything."  
"That's what I want." Isaac took another drink.  
"Exactly what do you want? How he got his job, who he might have stepped on, who owes him and who he owes?"  
"And not one word less."  
"How am I going to pull that off? It's a miracle I know what I know."  
"You're the best investigator I've ever known. I have faith you've got another miracle in you." Isaac's smile wasn't really a smile.  
Greg leaned forward. "Why do you want this, Isaac?" he asked in a virtual whisper. "What good could possibly come of it?"  
Isaac's eyes shone with tears, but his jaw was granite. "Chris Murphy is a cancer. We both know it. He causes nothing but misery. I watched him risk other people's lives and careers at various points. He keeps getting free passes and second chances, like this one and the one before that and the one before that. This isn't CNN or ITN or the Washington Post, places where I had only an employee's interest. I helped build CSC. It's my life. I can not and will not allow him to walk into my professional home, take control in a bloodless coup, and set about destroying people I love. He will not get past me again." Isaac was trembling as he sat silent for a moment.  
Greg nodded deliberately. "It'll take me some time."  
"Then get started," Isaac said. Then he softened his tone. "If you would."  
  
Dana had made the trip. She had coaxed herself out of her chair just as Casey was wrapping the show. She had dragged her unwilling spirit to the sliding doors of the elevator. And she even pushed the button - the one that pointed up, too, not the one that she would have preferred, which led to the lobby and the revolving door and eventually away from here.  
Dan had bolted from the set without a word, so he was obviously going to be in a great mood for the late show.   
Casey was going out with Sheri tonight. Ick.  
And to top it all, she had to take an audience with Chris Murphy, and probably have to watch him sweat to understand her book, and question her choices, and give her nothing but notes that were all sound and fury.   
Oh, yes, she thought, the late show was going to be nothing but fun tonight.   
  
Casey found the office dark. Dan had been there, but only long enough to shut off his computer, and probably mutter a few choice curse words. Casey flipped the light switch and the bulbs hummed to life over his head.  
Dan's grudges were getting to be as famous as Isaac's, he thought. Casey flopped down onto the couch. It was confusing. He and Dan had been through so much together, good and bad, that he believed Dan would be at least somewhat forthcoming with his reasons for hating Murphy. Casey did know that it was hate. That was all-too obvious. But why?  
Casey's cell-phone buzzed. "This is Casey," he said as he picked up.  
"And this is Sheri," the soft voice on the other end replied.  
"Oh, hi," he said, his mind still on Dan.  
"That's all I get?" she asked.  
"Sorry, I'm kind of worn out."  
"I'm just teasing," she said.  
He could almost see that cute little false pout of hers. "I know."  
"Are we still having dinner? Because if you don't want to – "  
"No. I mean, yes, we're still having dinner. Why don't you swing by here, and I'll meet you in the lobby."  
"Sure. See you in, like, thirty minutes?"  
"Can't wait," he said. Then he ended the call and wondered where Dan had gone.  
  
Dana seemed so nervous to Chris. Unhappy. From the moment she walked in and sat down, there was nothing but discomfort. She was trying to smile, but her lips wouldn't quite let it stay. Chris wasn't wondering why her cheeks were a bit on the green side – he seemed to be having a similar effect on everyone today – but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned. After all, this wasn't his office yet, and if she puked, well, that was something the cleaning crew would hold a grudge about.  
She looked like she needed a drink. Then he felt his belly quiver. Her nerves were feeding his. He only hoped she couldn't notice it. He glanced through Dana's show book, absorbing her clipped note-taking, trying to will away the twinges racing through his body. He could do it most of the time, but ever since he walked in the building he felt like he was starving.   
Chris hated that sensation.   
And he hated knowing that if he couldn't will it away, and soon, he would eventually satisfy it.  
Stay focused on business, he thought. On the book. Get through the now.  
  
Dana was on the elevator. Salmon blouse, open just a bit. Black skirt. Pumps.  
Casey was on the elevator, too. Blue jeans. Long-sleeve t-shirt. Sneakers.  
Outside, a woman talking. "Casey," she was saying. "We're having dinner at Giorgienne. You have to wear a tuxedo."  
Dana turned to Casey. Sort of. "A tuxedo? You never have to wear a tuxedo with Dana."  
The doors opened. Sheri stands in the lobby, surrounded by a milling sea of blank faces. White coat. Flats. Drilling an oversize molar. "Go back to your office and change into your tuxedo."  
"But I'm with Dana," Casey said. Sort of.  
Sheri pouts as she drills. "You're with me."  
Casey reaches out, and the doors close. Dana's blouse is open a little more.  
"You're with me," she said.  
They reach for each other. "Casey?" she whispers as their lips are about to touch. "I thought you were already gone."  
  
Casey snapped awake, and looked up at Natalie, who was standing in the doorway. "Nat. Hi. Uh, what time is it?"  
"Seven-fifteen. I thought you had a date," she said.  
"Yeah. I - I gotta get going," Casey said, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes. "Is Dan around?"  
"No. One of the interns said he left the building right after the show. Got in a cab and took off." Natalie frowned. "I hope he doesn't do anything stupid."  
"Makes two of us," Casey said.   
  
Dana watch Chris finish flipping pages, and then give her a smile. "I like your show. You do it well, and I don't have any complaints."  
Dana furrowed her brow. "Hm?"  
"Sports Night took a hell of bouncing on the schedule – getting shifted and shuffled and shafted like it did – and losing eyeballs due to factors that were out of your control, well, that's about as close to Greek tragedy as you can get. I like the prime-time strategy. Takes a lot of guts to face off against the big boys, and it's showing results. You're gaining a toehold, and in limited markets, too. The second live Sports Night getting added a few months ago in its old late-night time slot, another good move. West Coast Update being solid, that's just icing for you."  
"Thank you. I don't do Update, but thank you." She could feel her stomach quarreling with itself. He was being too complimentary.  
"Well, you're welcome. We're going to continue to move forward. So I need you to be forward-thinking."  
"I can do that," she said.  
"Good. Because being forward-thinking can be hard if you care about the people around you. And I know you're close to a lot of people at CSC."  
"I don't follow," Dana said, even though she knew where he was going. She just wanted him to say the words.  
Murphy breathed out like the air was stale. "They put the budget in front of me, when I knew I was getting the job. This is six, seven weeks ago. And I studied it everyday. Read it from cover to cover, highlighted it in five colors, ran the numbers myself, ran the numbers with Stratosphere's accountants, ran the numbers with an independent firm that I'll be cutting personal checks to until I die. And that number-crunching resulted in my having to accept a cold, hard fact: I have to find money in the budget that isn't there. Stratosphere will cover red ink for a while, sometimes a great while, but ultimately, they will do what I won't. If I want to save CSC, really save it, I have to make cuts. Right now. And labor is my number one controllable cost."  
It still felt like she'd been slapped. Maybe a bit worse, because she had seen it coming. "Firings?" she asked weakly. "How many?"  
"I don't know."  
"You have to know," she said, looking at the bare wall. "You've studied the budget, highlighted, spent your own – "  
"Ten percent, nationwide."  
That was quick, Dana thought. "Fifty-seven people."  
"Give or take."  
"You said there wouldn't be changes. Fifty-seven people would tend to disagree with you."  
"Your show will not change. The format is solid, the technical work is top-drawer - "  
"Letting fifty-seven people go might change that."  
"You're not wrong." Murphy sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "The worst of it is, some of the people that are going to be let go are going to be people you'd think of as friends. The next few weeks, months even, are going to be – well, it could get downright messy. People will stay, people will go. What you need to understand – and this is extremely important – you don't know anything." Each word dropped like a brick.  
Dana's head began to throb. "I know it's just business, and that it has to be done, but giving good employees their walking papers, I don't know if I can do that."   
"You're not going to be swinging the axe; I am. And since I've been handed the black hat, you need to wear the white one. You have to be a voice of reason." "The one who makes it a soft landing."  
"The softer, the better."  
"I don't know if I can do that."  
"I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it, I don't take matters like these lightly. I don't want a thousand memos flying around, or secret meetings of staffers late at night, or hushed conversations in the break room. That sort of nonsense drags morale into the mud. We need to rise and keep moving. Doing what I have to do, and telling myself that over and over, that's how I'll deal with feeling like a bad guy."  
"And my job is to know nothing."  
"You don't sound convinced."  
"I'm not."  
Chris sighed. "I've been where you are right now. I'm still there. I tend to lean on the advice I got from my grandfather the day I was fired from my first broadcast job. 'If you want to make a chicken,' he said, 'you gotta lay a few eggs.' Maybe he was just giving me tips on animal husbandry, but I like to think he meant that if you want to get anything good in life, you gotta get through the tough parts. And this, it's about as tough as anything I've ever had to do."  
Dana considered him for a moment. "So what do you need from me?"  
  
Casey came out of his office, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He didn't really want to wear this particular ensemble, but that was all he had in the desk. His cell phone buzzed, and the number was Sheri's, so she must've made it to the lobby, he decided.   
When the elevator doors slid open, Casey saw that Dana was standing there, clutching her show book, looking a little lost, a little lonely, and a lot exquisite. Not in a salmon blouse, of course, but still....  
"Hi, Casey," she said with a sad smile.  
"Hi," he said gently. "How'd the meeting go?"  
"Fine. We're doing fine. I don't know anything." Dana's voice trailed off.  
Casey cocked an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"  
"Nothing," Dana replied. "I'm just worn out from today. Going to dinner with Sheri now?"  
"Yeah," Casey said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he was trying to hide them. "She's in the lobby."  
  
Dana tried to smile. "That's nice." And then, she added, "I hate her, you know."  
Casey smiled broadly. "Yeah, I know. Me, too."  
Dana was stunned. "What?"  
"She's so annoying. Not like you," he said, his hands caressing her arms. "She's not half as smart as you. Or a tenth as beautiful," he added, putting his strong left arm around her waist and pulling her close, while smoothing her cheek with his other hand.  
She felt her heart pounding against her ribs. "Casey, I can't believe you're saying - "  
"Then make me stop talking, Dana. Make me stop," he whispered as he leaned close to her, then kissed her like he used to.  
  
The elevator dinged, and Dana realized that Casey was still across the way. Now he was giving her a strange look. "You okay?" he asked. "You kind of went away for a minute there."  
"Really," she said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I must not be sleeping well."  
"Okay," Casey said. The doors opened and they saw Sheri, who waved. "There's my dinner date," he said.  
"She certainly is," Dana said, trying not to shudder. "See you later tonight."  
Casey shouted over to Sheri, "I'll be right there." Then he turned back to Dana. "Dan's in a bad place, I think. Murphy's driving him nuts, and he won't tell me why."  
"Dan's famous for his wounds. And a lot of times, they're self-inflicted."  
"I know, Dana. But this one, it's not like the others. I'm worried."  
Dana nodded. "So am I."  
  
Chris was at his desk when there was a knock at the door. He looked up and saw the pretty Asian-American producer he'd noticed earlier in the afternoon. He'd only seen her in passing, when he was chatting up the embarrassed Jeremy, but he took notice of her smile.  
"Mr. Murphy?" she asked.   
He shook his head in a parody of sadness. "You make me sound like a grown-up. Please, call me Chris."  
She chuckled. "Okay. Chris," she said. "I'm Kim. Some of us on the crew were going across the street for a sandwich, and I was wondering if you'd want to join us. If you want to, of course."  
Chris nodded with a smile, which she returned. He noticed that now he was hungry for things he could have. He pretended to look at his watch. "Sure. I've got time to eat." He rose from his chair and followed her out, closing the office door behind them.  
  
Isaac was alone in the booth at Jerry's. DiPaolo had left some time before. He was watching the staff clearing tables. And even though he didn't want to go back to the office, he didn't want to go home either.  
He felt trapped. Like he'd started something in motion that he could never stop. And even though he knew in his heart that having DiPaolo investigate Murphy's recent past would be the best thing for CSC, for some reason, a tiny spark of doubt was clinging to his brain, making him feel like a vengeful creep. That was a feeling he didn't want to have.  
Especially when he knew that he was in the right.  
  
Dan sat at the bar, whiskey still in the glass. He'd been staring at it for a while now, thinking about whether or not he wanted it. It was pushing seven-thirty. He had to be back at ten for the late show.  
The late Sports Night. On the New and Improved CSC. With the bestest, least scumbag-like boss in the whole wide world, Chris Murphy. You can trust him. Trust him with your life. Like Alicia did, not that long ago.   
Just the thought of her made him decide that he wanted the whiskey. And when the first shot didn't erase her face, he decided that he needed more.  
  



End file.
